


The Journey

by devilinthedetails



Series: The Ties that Bind [5]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Beginnings, Gen, History, Humor, Knight & Squire, journeys, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Roald and Imrah begin their journey as knight and squire.





	The Journey

The Journey

An orange and russet dawn lingered in the air like dew on grass when Imrah and his new squire—it was easier to think of his traveling companion as that than as the Crown Prince—rode southwest out of Corus along a road that would eventually take them to Port Legann with a squad of Imrah's guardsmen behind them. 

“Now our journey truly begins, Your Highness,” he remarked but didn’t necessarily expect a response from his squire, who had purple shadows the size of plums under his eyes. Tired boys weren’t talkative ones, which was just as well given how surly exhaustion tended to render them. 

“You can just call me Roald, my lord.” Roald sounded more asleep than awake, but Imrah was glad to oblige him. It would’ve been a long four years referring to the prince strictly by his title. Before Imrah could answer, Roald’s eyes widened as if he’d realized that he had a let slip a vulgar swear word, and he amended quickly, “If you want, that is. What I mean is you can call me whatever you like. I wasn’t trying to order you about or anything, sir.” 

“I didn’t think you were, Roald.” Imrah laid a steadying hand on his anxious squire’s shoulder and was relieved to feel the boy relax under his touch. “I’d be happy to call you by your name.” 

“Thank you, my lord.” Roald’s grin appeared genuinely grateful. 

While they were talking, the sun, which had risen marginally higher in the sky, turned the grain on one side of the road golden while the beginnings of the bluffs that turned into the coastal hills shone steely gray on the other. This region was a fertile belt often referred to as Tortall’s breadbasket, but as he gazed out at the fields where peasants were already toiling, he could imagine it as a bloodbath, the wheat rusty with blood rather than yellow with sunlight. 

Deciding that he had given his squire’s mind enough time to awaken and believing that military discussion of past battles not only provided strong tactical instruction but also valuable lessons in history in general and in political perspective, Imrah gestured at the wheat billowing around them in the breeze. “Here was where the Battle of the Bloody Field was fought. Remind me, Roald, why it was called the Battle of Bloody Field.” 

“Because so many men died that day that the field was soaked with blood for leagues,” Roald replied in little more than a whisper.

“Correct.” Imrah nodded his approval more at Roald’s appreciation of the magnitude of the carnage than the recitation of a simple fact. “When did this battle take place?” 

“It took place in 280, sir, and ended the civil wars over slavery.” Roald seemed to gain confidence with every word. “King Gareth III defeated the pretender.” 

Even a century and a half after the battle, the Contes, Imrah noted grimly, wouldn’t dignify the rebel noble who dared to crown himself king with a name other than the contemptuous one: pretender. The Contes were determined that his name should fade from history and only his shame would be remembered as proof that the Contes destroyed any challengers. 

“Who were King Gareth’s major allies?” Imrah asked a more difficult question to test his squire’s knowledge of history because he was convinced that a prince should be familiar not only with the stories of his family but also his whole realm. 

“Naxen, Queenscove, haMinch, and Legann, my lord.” Roald ticked each noble house off on his fingers as he spoke. “The pretender’s troops outnumbered his two to one, but the pretender forgot about the Legann bowmen in the bluffs until a rain of arrows killed most of his calvary, his footmen panicked, and it became a rout. It turns out you don’t want to forget the Legann bowmen.” 

“No, you don’t,” Imrah observed tartly but he was pleased with the depth of Roald’s understanding of the history of the Battle of Bloody Field. A king who didn’t understand the history would have no identity, be doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past out of ignorance, and be unable except by chance of repeating its glories. “Tell me. What happened to the pretender himself?” 

“He was captured.” Roald’s lips were a thin line, and it was impossible to gauge how he felt or what he thought as he went on, “King Gareth had him decapitated. Then his head was crowned with thorns and hung on the walls of Corus for all to watch it rot. The heads of the nobles who allied with him were also put on stakes on the walls of Corus. The vultures must have enjoyed quite a feast for weeks.” 

“That’s the fate that awaited those who revolted against the royal family.” Imrah decided that it was time to explore the other angle. “What about those who supported King Gareth III? Why did they align themselves with him? What were their motivations?” 

Roald’s forehead furrowed for a moment as he contemplated this then he murmured, “I suppose the reasons varied from family to family. The Naxens were bound by marriage to the Contes as they so often are, so shared blood made them fight for the Contes. The Queenscoves fought the pretender more out of spite of him than love of Gareth III because the pretender insulted the Queenscoves decades earlier, so the Contes were just the lesser of two evils for them. The Minchis felt too many of their vassals had been stolen and sold into slavery so they were committed to ending the unjust practice.” 

“What of the Leganns?” prompted Imrah when Roald fell silent for too long. 

“I admit I never really grasped their motivations, my lord.” Roald flushed with obvious embarrassment. 

“There’s no shame in admitting you don’t know everything.” Imrah reached out to clap Roald’s back in reassurance. “Now what don’t you understand about their motivations?” 

“Legann has a port city like Caynn, sir.” Roald bit his lip. “Port Caynn made a fortune in the salve trade when it was legal in Tortall and were ferociously opposed to its abolition. Wouldn’t it have been the same for Port Legann?” 

“Not if many people in Legann were being kidnapped by slavers.” Imrah shook his head. “Then you’ll find the Legann desire to support Gareth III was very similar to the Minchi one.” 

“I never knew that so many from Legann were stolen and sold into slavery.” Roald stared at Imrah as if he were both impressed and horrified by what Imrah had explained to him. “That’s dreadful, my lord.” 

“Yes, but the silver—quite literally—lining for that cloud was that it encouraged Legann to diversify its trade rather than relying on the slave market.” Imrah could hear the pride in his own voice since the resiliency and ingenuity of his people, past and present, made him feel honored to be one of their long line of lords. “Port Caynn suffered for their dependence on the slave trade when slavery was outlawed and so did their noble family.” 

“Especially when their noble family lost the right to collect taxes in Port Caynn and had to content themselves with just the dues from the surrounding area as punishment for siding with the pretender.” Roald’s lips quirked into a wry expression that reminded Imrah uncannily of King Jonathan, and it was rather disconcerting to see his liege reflected in the face of his squire. “If I’m not mistaken, sir, the Legann family won an increase in their right to collect taxes in Port Legann as a reward for allying with King Gareth.” 

“You remember your history well, Roald.” Imrah chuckled and considered ruffling Roald’s hair but stopped himself at the last instant with the thought that what was an affectionate gesture for him might be demeaning to royalty. A prince might not want to be petted. “I think you understand more than you let on, but”—Imrah sobered—“you have for the most part offered facts without interpreting them in a way that gives meaning, and meaning is why we study history. What meaning do you find in the Battle of Bloody Field?” 

“My lord?” Roald titled his head in utter bafflement, and Imrah wasn’t surprised. Most of his squires were discomfited when he started asking them why questions—since page training discouraged such questions—until they adjusted to him posing them to ensure their understanding of important issues. 

“Let me rephrase.” Imrah was all patience. “What do you make of the pretender’s fate?” 

“A decaying head on a spike isn’t my favorite decor, and the crown of thorns might have been a needless mockery.” Roald frowned. “Still, he was a pretender who tried to claim a throne and country that wasn’t his so he had to die as did his followers among the nobility. They committed a terrible treason that made the whole realm bleed, my lord, and came to an end just as terrible. 

“Well-answered, Roald.” Imrah was awed by the maturity and moral complexity in Roald’s response. 

“Is that how you would’ve answered, sir?” Roald glanced at Imrah with curiosity in the bright blue eyes he had inherited from the king, and Imrah’s shoulders squared with the remembered responsibility of teaching the heir to the throne what it meant to be a knight. It was an honor to be looked at with that kind of trust by your future king, and Imrah wasn’t sure he would ever deserve it, though he would spend the next four years trying to do just that. He owed that to Roald and the kingdom. 

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is it was a king’s answer.” Imrah was unable to resist the temptation to ruffle Roald’s hair this time since at this moment when he saw his future king he simply wanted him to be his squire. “A king should be unflinching when it comes to enforcing justice, but he shouldn’t be vengeful or cruel. Your answer reflected that. It was a wise one.” 

“It’s easier to answer than to do, my lord.” Roald leaned his head into Imrah’s hand, encouraging the hair ruffling, and Imrah smiled at the sign that the prince craved affection as much or more than any other lad who had squired for him. “I hope I can do when the time comes but I pray that moment won’t come soon.” 

“I’m confident that the gods will grant your father a long life.” Changing the subject as he recognized that their lesson had carried them to around noon, Imrah added as they passed a wooded area between two fields, “All this chatter has made me a hungry man. Let’s stop for a bite to eat before I devour my horse.” 

They dismounted, and, behind them, the soldiers came to a halt as well, tending to their steeds and making their meals. While Roald tied their horses to a tree and watered them, Imrah sat on a stone and busied himself preparing their food. In two bowls, he mixed dry meal from their saddlebags with water to make a thin porridge that was as unappetizing as it looked. 

As Roald slipped onto the rock beside him, Imrah pulled a small jar of spice imported from the Copper Isles from a pouch on his belt, winked at his squire, and sprinkled a hearty serving into each of their bowls, commenting, “Spice makes even the blandest meal more exciting, Roald, so remember to bring some with you when you travel.” 

“Spice will make a bland meal especially exciting if a band of bandits descends upon us to steal it,” Roald muttered under his breath, and Imrah observed inwardly that the prince had definitely inherited his father’s sense of irony. 

“Care to repeat that, squire?” Imrah arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t hear.” 

“I said I’ll remember, sir.” Roald was all duty but Imrah wasn’t fooled. 

“That’s what I thought you said.” Imrah’s mouth twisted into something close to a smirk. “By the way, I assure you, lad, I’ve never been attacked by robbers for my spice.” 

“You did hear me, my lord.” Roald looked at Imrah in a way that made it clear he expected to be punished for his impudence, and something about the shape of his eyes reminded Imrah of Queen Thayet. Roald didn’t just have his father’s eyes; there was something of his mother in there too, although you had to be inches apart from him to glimpse it. 

“I’m not deaf or in my dotage yet.” Imrah laughed, and Roald’s face cracked into a tentative smile. “Don’t worry. I enjoy the occasional ironic comment, but if it becomes a stream of sarcasm, you will be disciplined because I will not be amused. Do you understand what I’m saying?” 

“Yes, sir.” Roald nodded, his smile broadening, and Imrah saw that this squire had indeed understood. “I think I’m going to enjoy having a knightmaster with a sense of humor.”

Imrah believed he, in turn, would enjoy surprising some of the seriousness out of Roald.


End file.
